


A Denial

by BulimicSpacePug



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Addiction, Alcoholism, Denial, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares, alcoholic Twisted Fate, nostalgic Graves, past self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulimicSpacePug/pseuds/BulimicSpacePug
Summary: After nearly a decade in the Locker and on the run, Graves has finally returned to Twisted Fate's side, but something about the other thief has changed. Seven years of solitude and paranoia have left Twisted Fate an alcoholic wreck, and he's in no position to pick up the pieces.





	

He’s caught him like this before, of course, a bottle of whisky in one hand and a rigged deck of cards in the other, a weary smile on his lips as he counts the day’s winnings for the third time that evening. That’s just how Twisted Fate is — how he’s always been, for as long as Graves can remember. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t bother him at all: it’s so routine, so normal, that if he strains his memory hard enough, he can recall Fate ten years younger, his hair in braids, still bent over a pile of gold at the table of one inn room or another. Sure, the outlaw’s disappointed by his companion’s sulky quietness, but the pair is set in their ways, and anyway, it’s TF’s antics that pay for their room in the first place. Graves can’t really complain.

“Good day?” he asks, setting his gun down by the door. He hasn’t had to shoot today, knock on wood. Fate grunts softly in acknowledgement. He’s a few drinks past tipsy, but he’s a sober drunk, and when Graves lifts the hat off his head, he scowls and snatches it back.

“Was, until you came back,” he huffs.

“Well?” Graves asks. “How much is it?”

“Three-thousand, five-hundred thirty-two,” Twisted Fate drones. “I think.”

“Sure, you think. You only counted it half a dozen times.”

“I’m too sober for this, Malcolm,” Fate sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shoving the coins away. Even for Twisted Fate, he looks old and scruffy. He stares through bloodshot eyes, looking right through Graves and to the opposite wall. His right hand is trembling, but just so, and Graves nearly misses it. 

“Like hell you are.” Graves rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you call it a night? I’ll count it all later.”

“Give me a few,” Fate replies.

Yeah, Graves is pretty much used to this. He pulls up a chair next to the card sharp and reaches for the half-empty bottle, evidently to Twisted’s annoyance. Sooner or later Graves will turn his back for a cigar, and Fate will have produced another bottle from his secret stash — Graves has all but given up trying to figure out where the seemingly endless supply of alcohol keeps coming from. He takes a long swig of whisky, slides it back across the little wood tabletop. 

“Workin’ yourself half to death,” he remarks. “Hell, Fate. You’re drunk.”

“Ain’t drunk,” TF replies. His breath his heavy with booze, beer and wine and brandy and rum. A new bottle materializes in his hand, the same way it always does, and he pulls out the cork with his teeth. He doesn’t say anything more, just settles back into his moody silence. Graves watches him through half-lidded eyes, the deathlike veil of sleep wrapping itself around him, and tries to remember a time when Fate was sober and still had time for him. Before the Locker, maybe, when gold was plentiful and drinks were scarce in number; when their arms were too full of whores and money to be bothered with the sharp sting of strong liquor. 

He’s not sure that such a time existed.


End file.
